Compromise
by EvergreenDreamweaver
Summary: The first visit from Naomi, six months after the events of TSbyBS. Can Jim forgive her? Can Blair?


Disclaimer: I do not own the Sentinel or any of the canon television characters, and am making no monies from this story. Any Original Characters belong to the author(s).

Note: This story was originally written in the around 2006, so technology is not at a 2017 level. Please pardon that fact.

Compromise

by EvergreenDreamweaver

 **Characters:** Jim, Blair, Naomi

 **Plot Blurb:** The first visit from Naomi, six months after the events of TSbyBS. Can Jim forgive her…can Blair?

#####

Like some sort of automotive _ballet à deux_ , two vehicles turned onto Prospect Avenue one after the other, sweeping with accustomed ease to the same goal. Totally different, yet in some ways alike, they approached their destination. The first was a blue-and-white Ford pickup truck more than 30 years old; the second a green Volvo sedan of equally remote vintage. Without hesitation, each driver pulled into a parking space – there was no assigned street parking, but all the tenants of 852 Prospect had a tacit agreement – those _particular_ spaces belonged to the occupants of Apartment # 307 .

The men who emerged from the vehicles were as different in appearance as the cars they drove. The driver of the pickup was tall, slim yet muscular, with short-cropped dark hair, intense blue eyes and a firm-set jawline. From the Volvo stepped a shorter, younger man whose hair flowed in rippling chestnut waves past his shoulders. Wide sea-blue eyes with long lashes, and a Cupid's-bow mouth completed the Botticelli-angel appearance – said angelic appearance being completely shattered by the young man's demonic grin!

Similarities in dress added to the mix – each attired in khakis, a long-sleeved blue shirt, and a leather jacket, although the older man carried his coat slung casually over one arm and also wore a tie. And the final matching touch: holstered revolvers – a shoulder harness for the smaller man; a back holster for the other – and gold shields attached to their belts, identifying them both as detectives for the Cascade Police Department.

Their closest association, however, was something quite different. For Jim Ellison and Blair Sandburg were more than fellow police officers, more than roommates, more than merely best friends. They were Sentinel and Guide, linked and bonded; closer than brothers, even closer than spouses – Jim, gifted with his genetically enhanced senses; Blair, with the knowledge and uncanny ability to help him use them.

"Nice timing, Jim! Coordination with cell phones really comes in handy, huh?" Sandburg smiled at his partner, and turned back to his car to wrestle something large, fuzzy and unwieldy from the back seat. "Look what I've got!"

The Sentinel watched him, his expression turning from mild curiosity to dubious – if amused – alarm. "Chief, do I want to know why you're carrying a stuffed alligator?" Reaching his partner, Ellison removed a slim black attaché case – Sandburg's replacement for the backpack he'd carried for years – from his friend's hand to allow him a better grip on the life-sized stuffed animal.

"Actually, you do…thanks, man." Blair nodded appreciation and hefted his burden cheerfully. "It's Megan's birthday this week – and it's been just over a year since we had the – uhm – croc-spotting event at the PD. I thought it ought to be commemorated, somehow." He chuckled, recalling the night of chaos which had resulted from an alligator running loose in the ventilation system of the precinct building.

Now Ellison's grin matched his roommate's for devilishness. "Connor's birthday, hmm? What day? Do I have time to get her something equally…appropriate?"

"It's Thursday – plenty of time." Blair punched the elevator call button with his elbow while Jim checked their mailbox and gathered up the contents.

"Maybe a whole lot of little alligators," Ellison mused. "Stuffed – ceramic – plastic. Uh…stickers. Stationery. Do they make Beanie Baby alligators?" They stepped into the elevator and rode to the third floor, both pondering.

"I'm sure they must….How about a coffee mug with a 'gator crawling up the handle," Sandburg suggested. "We could go shopping after dinner – want to?"

"Good idea." Jim led the way to their door, still swinging Blair's attaché case in one hand while he rummaged for his keys with the other.

"Jim – what's that smell?" Blair sniffed. "Is that coming from our place?" His question was answered as a grinning Ellison opened the door to the loft and enticing aromas wafted over them. "Mmmm! What is it?"

Knowing he was purposely being an irritant, the Sentinel made a large show of sniffing too. "Let's see…chicken – tomatoes – garlic – onion – oregano – ah, a bay leaf—"

"JIM!" Blair swung the stuffed alligator and whacked his teasing roommate.

"Hey, watch it with the attacking reptiles, Chief—"

"You're gonna be attacked with more than a reptile in a minute….Who's been here cooking?"

"For someone who spent four years as an observer, you aren't very observant," Ellison chuckled. He tossed his keys into the waiting basket, set the attaché case down, and hung up his leather coat. "You forget about that crock pot we found a couple of weeks ago when we went through those boxes of stuff in storage?"

"Yeah, I had." The younger detective put down his alligator and matched Jim's actions with his own jacket, then set about removing his gun and holster.

"I had time this morning after you left, since I didn't have to be in court until ten," Jim explained, "so I put it all together and switched the thing on. It's chicken cacciatore, and it's supposed to be ready at 6:00 ."

"Well, all hail modern technology! Why didn't we find it years ago?"

"Dunno…" Ellison opened the refrigerator. "You want a beer?"

"Yeah, but I want a shower more," Blair absently shuffled through the mail. "Bill…junk…junk…bill…junk…magazine…."

"We don't get any interesting mail," Jim lamented, popping the top off his beer and taking a long swallow.

"I've noticed that…." Sandburg tossed the bills and magazine onto the kitchen table, and everything else into a box on the counter labeled 'recycling.' "But it's your magazine, at least!" He glanced at the telephone answering machine, spotting the blinking red light. "Maybe an interesting phone message?"

"Paid political announcements," Jim predicted gloomily. "Telemarketers – insurance salesmen – requests for charitable donations. If we're really, really lucky, a notification from the library about a book being in—" He broke off as Blair hit the playback button.

At first Jim's predictions were accurate, with a couple of telemarketer calls. Then Rafe, announcing a change in location for the Friday night poker game, "Why couldn't he have just told us at work?" Blair demanded softly. "Oh—" listening to the rest of the message, "he's got a couple of days off; he won't be there."

And then – "Hi, sweetie! It's me!" The light, floating, familiar feminine voice filled the loft. Jim snapped to attention, and saw Blair stiffen likewise. "I'm at the Cascade airport – thought I might be able to stop by and say hello, but it looks like I won't have time, after all. I'm just on my way through; my friend Mona and I are going up to northern Canada for a retreat. I'm still…processing things…though. Maybe on my way back – in a month or so. Say 'hello' to Jim for me!"

In total silence, Blair stopped the playback, and Jim saw his fingers hit the button to erase the messages.

"Chief—" Jim felt his throat close up. He was floundering in a sea of conflicting emotions, most of them having to do with comforting Blair IMMEDIATELY, while at the same time, he was contemplating with complete cold detachment the social mores of assassinating one's roommate's mother. He was sure he had the ability to do it; once Black Ops, always Black Ops, right? He was equally sure it was frowned upon, in polite society. You just didn't go around murdering your best friend's mother, no matter how great the provocation. It made for a hell of a strain on a friendship….

 _DAMN that Naomi Sandburg! DAMN HER! Hasn't she done enough to ruin Blair's life?_ The road to hell was paved with good intentions, so he'd often heard – and damn if there wasn't Naomi Sandburg working away with her little hard hat and paving kit! And SHE had the utter gall to be unable to 'process' the results of that damage?

"Think I'll go take that shower." Blair's voice was very quiet and composed. If Jim hadn't been able to hear his partner's pounding heart and the hitches in his breathing, he might have been fooled. But he _was_ able to hear them. He just wasn't sure what he could do to help. Maybe nothing.

"Okay, Chief; dinner'll be ready when you are." Clenching his jaw until it hurt, Ellison watched his Guide move towards the bathroom. Once the door was closed and he could hear the water running, Jim took his beer and plunked himself down on the couch, somberly contemplating the darkened television set. He tilted his head against the back of the couch, and without conscious volition, he let his mind wander back over the last few months….

Six months. It had been six months since Naomi had, with all the best intentions in the world, managed to change the course of her son's life by the simple act of sending his unedited doctoral dissertation to a publisher. The resultant media frenzy 'outing' Jim's Sentinel abilities had made Jim's life – and Blair's – a hellish existence, and had seriously jeopardized not only Jim's career, but his life and the lives of his fellow officers. When Jim had angrily accused Sandburg of betrayal, when Simon, Megan and Rafe had all been injured by an assassin shooting up the Major Crimes office itself, Blair had taken steps.

Irrevocable steps.

Jim still shuddered at the recollection of the press conference. He had it on tape; Wendy Hawthorne had given him a copy. He'd watched it more than once, and his heart had shattered anew each time he saw Blair Sandburg, Guide and partner, roommate and friend-beyond-all-friendships, destroy his academic standing, his career, his livelihood; by denying that Sentinel abilities existed, and by declaring that his PhD dissertation was a fictional fantasy, and he, himself, nothing but a fraud.

And the massacre hadn't stopped there.

Jim slugged down a large gulp of his now-tepid beer and glared at nothing in particular. The water was still running in the shower; Blair would either be turning into a prune or freezing to death very soon. But the Sentinel wasn't done with his morose ruminations; in fact, he'd not even gotten to the real reason he was half-seriously contemplating doing bodily harm to one Naomi Sandburg!

After the press conference, Blair had immediately been terminated by Rainier University . No more teaching fellowship; no more anthropology classes. No more grants. No more nothing. And although the media's attention turned away from Jim Ellison, Klaus Zeller's attention had not. Jim's efforts to protect Zeller's target from intended assassination were eventually successful, but resulted in Zeller's death and Jim acquiring a bullet wound in his leg. Blair, feeling guilty, disgraced and rebuffed on all sides, had withdrawn into a silent, miserable shell, leaving his partner scrambling to pick up the pieces of their shattered lives.

A small, reminiscent smile touched Ellison's lips as he recalled that day in the Major Crimes bullpen – the day when Blair thought he was saying goodbye, only to have Jim and Captain Simon Banks offer him the opportunity to become a police detective in his own right. _And Naomi was right there, applauding and smiling and assuring Blair she was all right with it…._ The smile faded and Jim's mouth curled bitterly. _She stayed until the party was over, and then, while Blair was still stunned at the turn of events and the opportunity he'd been granted, she announced she had to 'process all this,' and cleared out – and she's been gone ever since!_

His Guide had surprised him, Jim mused. He hadn't been sure Blair would accept the offer to become a police officer, even if it meant a permanent, paid position as Jim's official – and only – partner. But he'd wanted – _needed_ – to be sure that Blair knew, with no doubts whatsoever, that he was _WANTED_. Wanted desperately. And somehow, Blair had seemed to understand. But his actions had still surprised Jim, as Blair's actions so often did.

Simon had assured him that only weapons training was going to be required, based upon his three-plus years as Jim's _UN_ _official_ partner. But Blair had other ideas.

" _Jim…I want to do something, and I need your help."_

" _Chief, if you need my help with anything, it's yours; you know that."_

" _The Academy courses – the academic ones Simon said I could skip?" The Guide had chewed his lip nervously, looking anywhere but into Ellison's questioning eyes._

" _Yeah? What about 'em?"_

" _I…it isn't right for me to do that."_

" _Sandburg – Chief, you can't mean you want to go through the whole Academy training! It would be_ _months_ _before we could work together any more!" Jim was horrified at the thought._

" _No, that's not what I mean." Blair had chuckled a little. "I know you need me in the field with you – not to mention typing all that paperwork," he teased gently. "And I want to be there with you, that's a given. No, I'm proposing that I challenge the classes. If I can do that, then there can't ever be anything to come back and bite us, later. No one can say I got in through a loophole, or was given preferential treatment."_

" _You want to challenge the_ _whole_ _curriculum?"_

" _Uh-huh. That's why I need your help, man. We've got something like six weeks until the next session starts. I want to have everything over with by then, except for the firearms training. Learning to shoot will be enough of a challenge in itself!"_

Jim shook his head at the memory of those six weeks. Blair was brilliant, there'd never been any question about that, and he'd amassed an amazing amount of police knowledge by osmosis while working with Jim. He could write better reports than anyone else Jim knew, in whatever department, he knew police procedures and codes and departmental regulations backwards and forwards. But to challenge the entire twelve-month curriculum…that took incredible guts and determination.

Once Blair's intentions had been made known to the major players in Major Crimes, the whole group had volunteered to help. Megan, Rafe, Henri, Joel – even Simon, when he could spare the time – all tutored, tested, lectured, advised. Rhonda got in touch with the office staff at the Academy, and ran copies of so many practice exams she exceeded Major Crimes' monthly quota of ink and paper. No one complained; they were all solidly behind 'their' detective-aspirant, and determined to see that he made good. Although Blair was no longer permitted to ride with Jim and come to Major Crimes as a police observer, there were _no_ rules, Henri commented with a bland smile, about whether or not the detectives were allowed to occasionally invite a civilian friend to join them for lunch!

The fact that one or another of them invited that same civilian friend to lunch an average of four times a week was never mentioned. On the other days, Ellison went home to the loft for lunch.

Jim, desperately missing his partner, and hesitating to go out into the field too often without his Guide's supportive, sustaining presence, spent a major portion of his days deskbound, partnering with Megan Connor when he absolutely had to work outside the office. He took files home for Blair to review so that he would be up to speed on all the cases, and spent his evenings, weekends, and days off coaching and reviewing, quizzing, and listening to Sandburg recite memorized facts and procedures. When bookwork drove them to distraction, they switched to self-defense and target practice.

Ellison suspected that this mad scheme had very likely saved his best friend's sanity. Blair had been a student for so long, cutting him off from studies at Rainier was like a physical amputation, and caused no less pain, psychologically speaking. But with his goal firmly in mind, Sandburg had to focus and hit the books again. Only the subject matter was changed. The Sentinel found himself in the unusual position of teaching the teacher, of guiding his Guide – and he discovered that he enjoyed it.

When Blair inevitably became stressed, exhausted, depressed, overwhelmed, and at the end of his rope, Jim soothed, comforted, encouraged and forced him to sleep _['If you don't lie down and get some rest on your own, Sandburg, I'll smack you over the head wit to make_ _sure_ _you sleep!_ ' _]_. He provided back rubs and neck massages and hugs, and offered Sentinel tests as an incentive and respite, for despite Blair's dissertation being trashed, the younger man was still fascinated with finding everything out he could about Sentinel abilities; he fixed meals and stood over his Guide until he ate them. He kept the loft supplied with aspirin and ice cream and every kind of tea imaginable, and forbore complaining about algae shakes, at least some of the time.

And at long last there came the week when Blair Sandburg brushed his hair back into the tightest pony tail he could manage, removed his earrings, dressed in his most conservative clothes, and drove to the Police Academy three days in a row, to challenge the curriculum.

Watching him go, Jim found himself hoping that once Blair was officially a detective, the curls and earrings would return. Decorum was all very well, but he wanted his 'neo-hippie witch-doctor punk' back – even if it meant everyone asking if he'd borrowed Blair from Vice or Narcotics, for the rest of their careers!

And through all this time, Naomi Sandburg had been conspicuously absent. Never a phone call, never an e-mail, never a letter. Blair had always been able to track her down if necessary before; now it was as if his Age-of-Aquarius flower-child mother had simply dropped off the face of the planet. Apparently, all because she couldn't face the fact that her son was determined to become one of 'the pigs.' The 'establishment.' Was going to carry a gun and know how to use it.

 _And he did it,_ Jim mused, smiling. _Challenged every single damned course and passed them all. He didn't ace everything; there's a limit to his capacities, after all. But he passed._ And by the time the firearms training class came around, Blair Sandburg was a detective in all but name. Between Jim and Megan, both crack shots and both caring, reassuring coaches, Blair found that he could overcome the distaste for guns decades of pacifism had ingrained in him. He might not _like_ it, but when it came down to the question _'Could you shoot this gun to save your life – or save_ _Jim's_ _life?'_ or _'if learning to shoot this thing accurately means keeping Jim alive, will you learn to shoot it?'_ there really was no hesitation with the answer. To save Jim's life, he'd shoot, and shoot accurately, or die trying. He might attempt other solutions as well, but he'd go in prepared.

And so he passed firearms training as he'd passed all the other courses. He'd been presented again with his gold shield, and this time a number was engraved upon it. And the first day he'd walked into Major Crimes wearing that shield on his belt, accompanied by a radiantly-smiling Jim Ellison who was nearly bursting with delighted pride, more than one occupant of the bullpen had openly shed tears of joy. The rest of them had pleaded severe allergy attacks or a bad head cold.

And still, his mother had stayed away, her absence and silence a reproach.

Jim lifted his beer bottle and found it empty. Sighing, he got to his feet and put it in the appropriate recycling container, then checked on his dinner preparations. Seeing that the chicken was done, he hastily set the table, started a pan of instant rice, and tossed the salad; and then he waited for Blair to emerge from the bathroom.

At long last, the shower was shut off, and Blair appeared, wrapped in a towel and looking somber. Jim scanned him without the slightest bit of hesitation; he needed to know what Blair's state of mind was. The Guide didn't seem to be too upset, but Blair Sandburg had become adept at hiding his feelings sometimes, even from his Sentinel. _Heartbeat and respiration well within normal range; hitches in breathing gone – well, he's calm, at least. Maybe not happy, but calm._

"You doing okay, Chief?"

Blair smiled faintly. "I am, actually. Give me a few, to get some clothes on."

"Remember, we wanted to go alligator-shopping after dinner," Ellison reminded him. "So put on something you can wear outside the loft!"

"Got it." Sandburg disappeared into his room, only to pop his head back out, a mischievous grin curving his lips. "If anyone heard that last bit about alligator-shopping, Jim, and didn't know the context, they'd think we were raving lunatics!"

"Sandburg, the whole world thinks we're lunatics half the time anyway, so what the hell difference?"

Dinner was eaten in companionable fashion, with Blair full of compliments about the chicken cacciatore and ideas for other menus. Jim, foreseeing a future filled with nothing but crock-pot meals, wondered if he'd made a mistake in unearthing the thing, but decided the convenience of having dinner nearly ready when they got home would make up for it. And the novelty would wear off eventually, anyway. They hurried through the meal, intent on their proposed shopping expedition.

When the dishes were washed, Jim headed upstairs to change into jeans and sneakers. Blair sat down to leaf through the contents of his attaché case, reviewing a case file as he waited for his partner. The sound of a knock on the apartment door startled them both.

"Who…?" Blair glanced up towards Jim as the older man descended the stairs. "You didn't hear anything?"

"Dialed down," Ellison replied, tapping his ear. "Answer it, Chief; you're closer." But even as Blair obeyed, the Sentinel was extending his senses to identify their caller before the door was opened. Q _uick breathing and elevated pulse…that perfume….Oh, my GOD!_

"Blair, sweetie!"

Jaw dropping in shock, blue eyes widened with amazement, Blair Sandburg stared at the beautiful red-haired woman framed in the doorway.

"M-mom?"

Naomi Sandburg swept into the loft, arms outstretched. "You look so surprised, honey! Didn't you get my message?" She hugged her son, then raised her eyes to the silent figure standing on the stairs. "Hello, Jim!"

Ellison nodded mutely.

"Y-you left a message saying that…that you were leaving." Blair stammered. "Th-that you'd maybe be b-back in Cascade in a month!"

"That was my first message, honey – after I left that one, I found out that the flight was delayed – mechanical problems with the plane. Not taking off until midnight !" She smiled, delighted that she had surprised them. "I left you another one, but I guess you didn't hear it, hmmm?"

"You…said you were still…processing." Blair's voice still sounded strained, although he'd stopped stammering. Jim, attuned to him, heard the staccato beat of his heart begin to settle into a more natural rhythm.

Naomi dropped her gaze to the floor. "I – well, I decided I needed more…input, Blair," she said softly.

Jim cleared his throat and finished descending the stairs. "Um – Chief, I'm sure you'd like to have a chance to talk with your mom. So – I'll just – go and run that errand, okay?"

"Jim, that's not neces—"

"Sandburg, I think I can manage to buy alligators by myself," the Sentinel snapped irritably, before realizing what a ridiculous-sounding remark _that_ was. He felt himself turning red. "Oh, for—"

Naomi's blue eyes went impossibly wider and rounder. "Jim – forgive me, but did you just say you were going to buy an ALLIGATOR?"

Blair emitted a sharp little bark of laughter. "Actually, Mom, we're going to buy several. Of various sorts."

"Several…alligators." Naomi said thoughtfully. Her calm gaze swept over the loft, and she spotted the large stuffed plush creature Blair had arranged atop the back of the smaller sofa. She turned an inquiring look on her son and his crimson-faced roommate. "Stuffed? Live?"

Jim was sorely tempted to say 'live,' just to see what happened. Tell her they were going to stock the moat with 'em, maybe. He was opening his mouth to do just that, when Blair beat him to the draw.

"Gee, Jim, a live one might be a good idea…"

Jim shook his head regretfully, trying to keep the twinkle from his eyes. "I don't know where we could find one this time of night, Chief."

"Oh – that's true, I guess."

"All right, you two!" Naomi sounded both amused and exasperated. "You can stop it right now. I know you aren't really going to buy a live alligator!"

"How do you know?" Ellison challenged.

"Because you have nowhere to keep it," she replied triumphantly.

"You're right, Mom, we don't. It's not for us, it's for a birthday gift," her son calmly informed her, his eyes sparkling wickedly. "But if we do get a live alligator, we're not going to buy it until the day before anyway. We were just going to look, tonight."

"Blair Sandburg…"

"Blair will explain it all." Jim gathered up his jacket, keys, holster and gun. "I'll be back in an hour or so, Chief. Naomi, hope you're still here then." He beat a hasty retreat out the door, and heroically refrained from listening in on the conversation as he caught the elevator.

Once alone, Blair found himself wanting to pace nervously. With conscious effort, he smiled at his mother and gestured towards the couch. "Sit down, Mom. Would you like some tea?"

"That would be nice, sweetie." Naomi sat. "Are you going to tell me about the alligator?"

"Oh…well, yeah. It's just a joke for Megan – Inspector Connor's – birthday, that's all." Blair cleared his throat. "Uhm…she has this sort of – history – with alligators, see…."

"Blair – sweetie. Never mind the tea...or the alligator. Come here. Sit down." Naomi beckoned him.

Blair sat.

"Blair…We need to talk, I know." Naomi paused a moment, then doggedly went on. "I'm sorry, honey."

He waited, barely breathing.

"After – when I left, last time – I didn't consciously mean to hurt you, but that's what I did…didn't I?"

Her son inclined his head slightly, but didn't speak.

Naomi sighed. "I felt too guilty to stay. I knew what I'd done…what happened. The things you had to do. And then – oh Blair, just the thought of you becoming…." She trailed off, and her glance found the hook on the wall where Blair's shoulder holster hung. She shuddered. "What you became."

"You make me sound like I became an axe-murderer, Naomi," Blair said dryly. "I don't think becoming a police officer ranks quite that low."

"Blair, I didn't mean—"

"Yes, you did."

"I thought I'd accepted it." She shuddered again. "But then, I think about you, and the danger Jim puts you in every day…."

"Mom, JIM doesn't put me in danger—" Blair looked down at his lap for a moment, considering what he wanted to say. Then he looked up and smiled. "Mom, I'm going to ask you some questions, and I want you to answer them truthfully, okay?"

"All right, honey." Naomi sighed, but agreed.

"If you didn't know what Jim did for a living, didn't know his profession, would you consider him a good man, someone you wanted to know and be friends with? Someone you'd want your son to be friends with?"

Naomi gazed at her son, wide-eyed. "Yes, of course! Jim's a wonderful man!"

"What about Simon Banks?"

"Yes, him too."

"The rest of the people in Major Crimes? What about them?"

"They're all very nice, Blair; I like them as people – it's what they do—"

"Stop right there." Blair held up one hand. "Have you ever read what's written on the patrol cars, Mom? It's not on the unmarkeds, of course, or on the detectives' personal vehicles like Jim's truck or my car."

She shook her head, waiting for him to tell her.

" 'Protect and Serve,' Naomi. Protect and serve. Can you tell me a better phrase to describe what Jim – and Simon – and the other police officers in Cascade – and ME, Mom – do, every day? Can you think of a better thing to DO?"

She shook her head again, but still attempted to dispute Blair's words. "But, Blair, being a cop – the violence, the guns, the destruction…you're an anthropologist, Blair, a scientist! You weren't ever meant to be one of…them."

His smile was rueful. "No, Mom. I was an anthropologist. I may still be interested in anthropology, I may read articles; I may pursue it as a hobby or an avocation. But I'm no longer an anthropologist. I am one of – 'them.' I'm a police detective. And I'm a good one. I have talents as a profiler and as a negotiator – or so Jim says. And Simon!" he added.

"Really?"

Blair grinned. "Really. And Mom – admit it. When you were involved with the carjacking case, and the missing girl, with Charlie Spring….You know you enjoyed it. You liked the rush it gave you. Admit it."

"I…" Naomi blushed. "Is that what draws you to it, Blair? The rush?"

"Nah. Oh, it did, at first. I told Jim once that it would be hard to get back on the merry-go-round of academe, after finding out how exciting the roller coaster was. But it's not just the adrenaline high; mostly, it's knowing that I'm making a difference, Mom. I'm doing something important. More important than lecturing a classroom of students on the inhabitants of the Amazon Basin! A lot of people can do that." He paused, considering his next words carefully. "You know what the diss was about, don't you? Basically, I mean?"

"Yes, sweetie."

"And you do realize, don't you, that I am a grownup now, and able to make decisions on my own…right?"

She smiled. "Yes, Blair – believe it or not, I do."

"Then listen up, Mom, because this is important." Blair waited until his mother's eyes met his and he knew he had her complete attention. "Jim is a very, very incredible person, in many ways. I'm proud and honored to call him my best friend and my partner. And my place is with Jim…no matter where or when. Right there beside him – or at his back – or in front of him, protecting him the same way he protects me. That's where I belong, Naomi, and that's where I'm going to stay. I've worked hard to prove I belong there. He'd risk – or sacrifice – his life for me, and I'd gladly risk or sacrifice mine for him. And nothing you say or do is going to change that. So you trying to make me leave him – for whatever reasons – it isn't going to work."

"But—"

"NO, Mom. Not leaving him. Not leaving the police force. End of discussion. Deal with it – okay?"

Naomi Sandburg's eyes were awash with tears, but she managed to smile at the same time. She reached out and tenderly ran the tip of her forefinger down the bridge of Blair's nose. "'Where did you come from, baby dear?'" she quoted softly. "When did you become so wise? I am so proud of you," she whispered. "I might not always agree with your choices, honey, but I'm proud of you for making them and sticking by them."

"So you've come to terms with my being a detective, then?"

"I'll always be afraid for you, Blair, worried for you – and I'll probably never be happy about it…but I think I can live with it." An impish grin curved Naomi's mouth. "And if you ever find that you want my help on a case…."

Blair put his arms around his mother and hugged her tightly. "You're a good sport, Mom, ya know that? Now, how about that tea?"

When Jim Ellison walked into the loft, laden with plastic shopping bags, he found his roommate in the midst of a rapid-fire description of a recent pursuit of a shoplifter he and Jim had done, involving mud puddles, a small dog, and a skateboard. Naomi Sandburg was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea in front of her, laughing as she listened and watched her son pace and gesture.

And Jim felt his tensions ease. Blair and Naomi had made their peace. _He_ might still feel some resentment towards her, but if Blair was satisfied, Jim would accept the situation gracefully.

"Jim! What did you get?" The younger man broke off his monologue to hurry towards his partner, grabbing at the sacks and beginning to inspect the contents. "Ooooh, little stuffed alligators! And….Wow, that plastic one's really ugly, man! Perfect!"

"Yeah, I think it sorta looks like Connor – same vicious expression."

"What's this…man, where did you find wrapping paper with alligators on it!?" Blair held up the package with unqualified delight. "This is so cool, Jim! But you're not done, are you? Shouldn't we get more? I wanna help shop for 'em!"

Laughing, Naomi stood up. "There might be some in the airport gift shops – if I could talk you two into taking me there, of course," she hinted. "I need to get back to the airport to catch my flight."

"Hey, swell! We can drop Mom and look for more 'gators!" Sandburg was already heading for his jacket. When he picked up his gun holster to buckle it on, however, he paused and looked back at his mother. A little smile graced his mouth, and he raised his eyebrows questioningly.

And Naomi Sandburg bit her lip, momentarily closed her eyes…and then smiled and nodded reassurance. "I hear that," she whispered. And turned to pick up her purse.

Finis

The poem "Where Did You Come From, Baby Dear?" © is by George MacDonald


End file.
